Taking Her

by Banks, R. R.

  I can't deny that being in his arms feels so good, so right. Though a maelstrom of emotions swirls within me, there's one thing I know more than anything else. One thing that is shining through the dark mass of uncertainty and fear that's ravaging my soul – I care about Connor Grigson. A lot. More than I probably should.

  “I want to be with you too,” I reply at last.

  “Then you've just made me the happiest man on Earth,” he says. “I know that things with your father are complicated. And I have a feeling that's what's been holding you back. But, believe me when I say that we'll figure it out. Together.”

  I look into his eyes and smile, an almost overwhelming wave of emotion threatening to pull me under once more.

  “Together,” I say. “I like that.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Connor

  It's late when I get home from the charity fundraiser. My painting had sold for a decent amount, which makes me happy. I know that money will be put to good use. Shutting off my car, I get out and bask for a moment in the fresh air beneath the silvery moonlight. It's a beautiful night out, and I take a moment to admire the view of the land around me.

  I have to say, life is damn good right now. I haven't talked to Zoe for a few days, but I know she's up to her tits in work – not to mention trying to come up with an exit strategy. We talked at length about Jay Hill's suit and the fact that she doesn't want any part of it. She also told me about her father and how she's as screwed as they are if I come after them.

  Which basically means my hands are tied. At least for now. I plan on getting together with my lawyer – a trusted friend of mine – to discuss some possible options. I need to find a way to put her father and Bryant down like rabid dogs but keep Zoe clear of the blowback.

  It's a tricky line to toe, no question about it.

  I close the car door and am about to set the alarm when movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention. Two large men emerge from the shadows, dressed in black from head to toe. They're big, brawny, and clearly here with bad intentions. The smaller of the two – if six-foot-three, two-hundred and fifty pounds can be considered small – has a baseball bat slung over his shoulder.

  Both look at me, their faces devoid of expression. It doesn't take a bloody rocket scientist to figure out who they are, what they're here for, and more importantly, who sent them.

  “I'm guessing you're not here to sell me Girl Scout cookies,” I say.

  “You wish.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  The bigger man shrugs. “Ain't about what we want.”

  “Fine,” I sigh and roll my eyes. “What does Bryant want?”

  The two men exchange a smirk but then turn their dark, beady eyes back to me. Their expressions are malignant and filled with anger. Though, I doubt it's anger at me. To be in their line of work, I’d guess you'd have to be perpetually pissed off.

  “I don't know who this Bryant cat is,” the bigger man says – obviously, the mouthpiece of the group, “but our employer wants to send you a very clear message.”

  “He could've picked up the phone,” I say. “Still can.”

  “Nah,” he replies. “Our employer says you're a real slow learner and need some visuals to make it sink in.”

  The big man nods to the smaller one, and he takes the bat off his shoulders and puts a home run swing on my taillights. The glass shatters, spraying all over the concrete of my driveway. I look at the little sparkling shards in the moonlight, feeling physical pain. The car is my pride and joy. More than that, it's got a powerful sentimental connection for me.

  One of the first things I did after getting out of rehab was put Ronnie's old car back together and make it whole again. I made it new. And now these pricks are trashing it. The anger inside of me threatens to boil over. These cucks are lucky I don't carry a gun on me because they'd be dead right now.

  “Fellas,” I say. “That is the lower than low. You can beat the shit out of me, fine. But don't touch my fucking car.”

  “Oh, we'll get to you,” the big man sneers.

  The second man goes around to the passenger side and delivers another violent swing, the sound of shattering glass filling the air around us. He beats on the car – caving in the hood, the roof, the trunk. I let out a long breath, reminding myself that the car, no matter how precious to me, is just a material object. Though the dents are deep, and the windows are all smashed, it can all be fixed. The dents can be repaired, and windows can be replaced.

  After about five minutes of work, the second guy is breathing like he's just run a fuckin' marathon. The seething rage within me has me on a razor's edge. I don't really want to fight, but I don't see another way out of this. Although I'm trying to walk a better path these days, there's a part of me that can't wait to start trading blows.

  “You done?” I ask, my voice tight with anger. “Message delivered?”

  “Not yet,” the big man says. “We still need to make an impression on you.”

  “Doesn't have to go this way.”

  “Our employer insists,” he says.

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You know what they say about the Irish, lads?”

  “Oh, I can't wait to hear,” he says.

  “They say we're known for three things,” I reply. “Drinkin’, fuckin’, and fightin’. I don't see a bottle in your hand, and you're not my type.”

  “Cute,” he says. “Get that off a bumper sticker?”

  “T-shirt, actually,” I reply. “Kind of catchy though, isn't it?”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but I don't give him a chance, driving my fist square into his face. I feel his nose crack beneath my fist and the man staggers backward, his hands covering his face, blood oozing out between his fingers. The second, smaller man looks at me, hatred clear on his face.

  “You motherfucker,” he growls. “You broke his fuckin' nose, man.”

  “I'm about to do a lot worse to you, lad.”

  He swings the bat, but his movement is clumsy and when I sidestep it, he's thrown off-balance. I swoop in and land a solid punch to his neck, causing his bat to hit the ground with a clatter. The man staggers back, his hands clutched around his throat, a choked, gasping sound coming out of his mouth.

  The air is driven out of my lungs in a whoosh as the other goon punches me in the kidney. I stumble forward, making a sound not unlike the guy I just punched in the throat. I spin around and am in the process of bringing my hands up when I’m hit in the head by what feels like a sledgehammer.

  I stumble and fall, turning over quickly. I look up to see the first guy I punched looming over me. His face is dark with rage and smeared red with his blood. His eyes burn with anger and I'm pretty sure if I don't get up, he's going to stomp on my head and pop it like a grape.

  I roll to the side just before his foot comes down, thumping hard on the concrete. Still gasping for air, I get to my feet and close the distance between the two of us. I drive my foot up as hard as possible and connect with his nuts. The man howls in pain and doubles over, clutching his groin.

  I only have a moment to celebrate before a fist seems to come out of nowhere and smash straight into the side of my face. As I'm falling over, I'm able to turn and look to see the second guy, a look of satisfaction on his face. I hit the concrete hard and have the wind driven out of me for a second time.

  This guy is smarter though. He doesn't give me time to recover. Instead, he closes the distance between us and drives his foot into my stomach like he's punting a goddamn football. There's not enough air in my lungs to even make a sound. All that comes out is a strangled, choking, sobbing noise.

  I lay there gasping for a few minutes, my mouth opening and closing like a damn fish out of water. It's enough time for the first guy to recover. Much to my dismay. They both approach me, their faces full of fury, and I know I'm in serious trouble.

  As they rain down a flurry of kicks, each one harder than the last, all I can do is cover my head with my arm
s and absorb them. It goes on for what feels like hours, though I'm sure it's only minutes. But, when they're through, there's not an inch of me that doesn't hurt.

  The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth, and I'm wheezing harder than an asthmatic. I roll onto my back and stare up at the sky. Damn, and it really had been a nice night out. I can hear the two men shuffling on the concrete and speaking in low tones to one another somewhere around me. I can't see them, and I hurt too much to try and turn and look around.

  But hey, at least I'm in pain. That, at the very least, means I'm alive and intact enough to feel pain. I wiggle my feet and fingers, making sure that I'm still able to. Seems like it. Bruises and broken bones will heal in time.

  A low groan slips out of my throat at the stab of pain I feel when I breathe in. I'm pretty sure I've got a few broken ribs. The first man – his nose swollen and still bloody – suddenly slips into my field of vision. He's smiling, despite the fact that his eyes are already growing dark. At least I have the comfort of knowing that he's going to have a couple of shiners for a while.

  “Ready for round two?” I wheeze.

  “Bitch, you couldn't make it out of round one,” he says.

  He stands up and drives a sudden kick to my thigh – because clearly, they hadn't done enough damage to me already. Thankfully though, I'm already such a mess, I can barely feel it.

  Then the man with the busted nose comes into view.

  “We got your attention, asshole?”

  “If you wanted my attention,” I say. “All you had to do was ask. You certainly didn't need to trash my car.”

  “Man, shut the fuck up already. You talk too damn much.”

  “Then stop asking me questions that require an answer, fucker.”

  He pulls back as if to kick me again, but I hear the second man murmur something to him. Beaten to a pulp though I may be, at least they didn't knock the sarcasm out of me. If that ever goes, you might as well put me in the ground.

  The man comes back into sight and sneers down at me. A couple drops of blood fall from his nose and splash upon my forehead, sending a shudder of revulsion through me. Not that I'm in much of a position to do anything about it.

  “I got a couple pieces of advice you should listen to, asshole,” he says.

  “Oh, I'm all ears.”

  “First, stay away from the girl,” he says. “She doesn't deserve a lowlife piece of shit like you hangin' around, draggin' her down.”

  “I guess it goes without saying that it goes double for you then, yeah?”

  He looks like he wants to kick me again, maybe in the head this time, but he resists the urge. It's a Herculean effort on his part, but he somehow manages to hold himself back. Good for him. Better for me.

  “The second piece of advice is to take the fuckin' settlement,” he says. “Stop fuckin' around and do the deal.”

  “Gonna be hard to do anything from the hospital,” I say. “Because that's where I'm headed when I'm able to get off my driveway, mate.”

  “I don't give a fuck what you do or don't,” he says. “I'm just deliverin' the fuckin' message. Stay away from the girl and do the deal, you piece of shit. You got that?”

  “Maybe you ought to write that down for me,” I say. “Like you said earlier, I'm a slow learner.”

  I groan as he delivers another kick to my leg. A minute later, they're gone. As if they'd never been there in the first place. Of course, my busted-up car and even more fucked-up body would beg to differ. I try to sit up and feel a white-hot current of pain gripping my body. I cry out and fall back, my head banging on the concrete.

  Every movement is torture and every breath I draw is agony. I have bruises layered on bruises with broken bones underneath. Frankly, I'm surprised I'm still conscious at this point. My vision wavers as I look up at the sky and an unnatural darkness begins to creep in at the edges.

  “Oh, here we go again,” I mutter.

  And before I know it, my entire world goes black.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zoe

  After almost three weeks of feeling off and barely being able to keep food down, I made an appointment with my doctor. I know I've been under a lot of stress lately and I'm hoping she can give me something to quiet my nerves and soothe my stomach. Enough is enough. I'm tired of feeling like human garbage.

  The door to her office opens and Dr. Garcia comes in, shutting it behind her. She's a small woman with short, tidy black hair, tan skin and dark eyes. Her movements are always quick, efficient, and bird-like. She's one of the most intelligent people I've ever known. She's been my physician since I was a little girl and over the years, I’ve come to trust her.

  “How are you doing, Zoe?” she asks brightly.

  “I'll be doing better if you can get me to stop throwing up,” I say and laugh.

  “Well, let's see what we can do about that.”

  She crosses the room and sits down behind her desk, opening a file in front of her. She opens it and flips through it, taking a long time to read over the information.

  “Well, we have your blood panels back,” she says, a curious expression on her face. “And it appears that congratulations are in order.”

  I cock my head and look at her. “Congratulations?”

  She looks up at me, a smile on her face. “You're pregnant, Zoe.”

  “I'm what?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Pregnant,” she says. “It's still early, but there's no question about it.”

  “That can't be possible.”

  Dr. Garcia smiles. “Have you had sex lately?”

  I feel my cheeks heat up as embarrassment floods my body. This shouldn’t be something I'm afraid to talk about with my doctor. I mean, this is her job. But, I'm embarrassed all the same. This just doesn't make sense. Connor and I have been so careful – we used protection each time we slept together. This has to be a mistake.

  “Well – yeah,” I admit, my voice soft.

  “Then I assure you, it's entirely possible, Zoe.”

  A nervous chuckle escapes me. “I mean, I know it's possible,” I say. “But, we've been so careful about it. I thought we were being safe.”

  She shrugs. “Nothing is ever completely full-proof,” she says. “Except abstinence, of course.”

  I let out a long breath, my stomach churning, my heart thundering in my chest. I’m pregnant? Shit. What am I going to do? I can't be pregnant. Oh my God, what am I going to do?

  “I take it this wasn't planned,” Dr. Garcia says.

  I shake my head. “Oh no. Far from it,” I reply. “Any chance the test could be wrong?”

  A small smile touches her lips. “Not likely,” she says. “They're pretty thorough and conclusive. You should make an appointment with an OBGYN soon though, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Oh, God,” I say, covering my face with my hands.

  “If you'd like, I can put you in touch with some pregnancy counselors,” she says. “They can help you come to the decision that's best for you.”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I would appreciate that.”

  She reaches into her desk and pulls out a pamphlet and a card, handing both over to me.

  “Just give them a call and set up an appointment,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say, completely numb.

  “Zoe,” she says in a way that makes me look up and focus on her. “Whatever happens, you're going to be okay. I promise you that. You're a strong, intelligent woman. Don't ever forget that.”

  I give her a thin, weak smile, as a tear falls down my cheek. I’m so scared – and so utterly alone.

  “Thank you, Dr. Garcia,” I say.

  “Of course,” she replies. “If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call me.

  I stand up, still completely numb, and leave her office.

  ~ooo000ooo~

  I lean against my car, still trying to process the news. I'm pregnant. It's amazing how two small words like that have the power to implode your entir
e life. Turn it upside down and inside out.

  I stare at the phone in my hand and try to think about my options. It's been a few days since I'd last spoken to Connor, and I'm terrified of calling him right now. I already know that I want to keep this child. I'm going to carry it to term, deliver, and raise it. I don't want to do it all on my own, but I will if I have to.

  I don't know how Connor feels about children. Naturally, given the fact that things between us are still so new, we haven’t talked about it. We're nowhere close to being ready to have that conversation. Or at least, we weren't.

  It's obviously a conversation we’ll need to have now though.

  I stare at the phone again. This isn't something we should discuss over the phone. No, it's got to be face-to-face. So, I'll call him and ask to meet up. We'd reluctantly agreed to keep our distance until this whole Jay Hill thing has finished playing out, but that doesn’t matter now. I have to talk to him. I need to see him.

  When my phone suddenly rings in my hand, I jump and nearly drop it to the concrete of the parking structure beneath my feet. I look at the display, hoping to see Connor's name – as if merely thinking about him delivered some sort of telepathic message.

  But, no. My heart sinks when I see that it's my father. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly and try to pull myself together. My father will pick up on the slightest sign that something is wrong. It's like a sixth sense with him or something.

  When I feel sufficiently composed, I accept the call and press the phone up to my ear, doing my best to sound pleasant. Or, at least, less irritated.

  “Good morning, Dad,” I say.

  “It's afternoon,” he says. “Where are you?”

  I roll my eyes and look at my watch. I'm tempted to point out that it's only eleven-thirty, and technically not afternoon yet. But, at this point, I don’t care enough to argue about something that petty.

  “I'm at the doctor's office,” I say. “I told you I had an appointment.”